


The day: Fucking COLD!!

by NY_shi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Humor, M is for multiple occasions of cussing, M/M, and mentions of sex, i love rusame to bits, i stayed up till 5am for this im dying happy, proud sequel to The day: Sunny, unbetaed we die like bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NY_shi/pseuds/NY_shi
Summary: In which Alfred is not an angsty kid, and Russia is not evil—just some lovely RusAme crack and humor.(So I'm very high on B-99 right now among other things and therefore hello! America's sequel to 'The day: Sunny' that my brain indulgently offered to me during a not-fever fever dream. I will not live long enough to regret a word of this.)
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), RusAme - Relationship
Kudos: 14





	The day: Fucking COLD!!

**Author's Note:**

> >   
> _  
> **"You're worth more than anyone bargained for." ** __****_  
>   
>   
>   
> **  
> **  
> 

The day: Fucking COLD!!

America is positively shivering in his bomber jacket. Apparently it was a bad idea to bring a 20 fl. oz cola to anywhere in Russia because it became a frozen solid in about two seconds. He could probably break a window with it now.

Actually…that was pretty good for an idea as they come. 

The countries America and Russia had an agreement privy only to themselves, and no one else or so god help them, to keep one window (on the first storey, there was a little fight over that one, a few broken ribs.) slightly ajar in case one of them wanted to "drop by"…"unofficially". Needless to say, they each coined a term because they couldn't agree on anything else after three weeks. America would have preferred "unexpectedly", "in the middle of the night", or "undressed", or all three, but Russia was about to set limits tighter than America's pants after Thanksgiving and Christmas, and he had to give.

America kept his bathroom window fully open because it was the smallest one, and maybe that was why Russia never once visited him like that (it started as a joke, like many things in (America's) life, but then his ego and some money got involved and now he couldn't back out of it). Russia's kitchen window was cracked open precisely so America can fit his hand in way too easily and open the window himself. America should know, he came by more often than he liked to keep track, and the window was always open to the same height.

Did he measure his hand size or something?

Anyway, the kitchen window was highly annoying, because he had to circle around to get in, and all this snow didn't exactly make it any easier. Of course, that was not counting settling on "matching windows" for their houses. Which ended in many a broken nose, among other things.

Well America was not about to stand for this fucking cold any longer, and Russia would have to make do with a broken window for the rest of the day or days—

Russia, in question, was now walking up to his front door.

He was wearing his silly hat and his scarf and really, there was nothing else to see (America already knew he was tall and looked better than him in coats, unfairly so.), except for his sharp nose and high cheekbones, flushed red in a— _dammit!_ —very not unattractive way.

America thought he would hold on to his break-in weapon of choice for a while more. This wasn't really a good time for b&e, but something better. Like an espionage mission. America's eyes sparkled at that.

Too bad Russia wasn't looking.

It was winter, and security literally could not be tighter—or _laxer_ —because no one would ever break into Russia's house in the middle of winter, right? Or even better, sit perfectly still and silent under the window of Russia's bedroom as said person walks in and begins to— _holy_ _crap_ —undress.

Keep it in, Alfred, he told himself. But of course he has zero self-control and he would rather die of frostbite and exsanguination (sounds a lot cooler that way.) rather than curiosity.

He was not some kind of pervert, goddammit! But he'd be lying if he said it didn't seem like he just got himself a private stripshow, on the house. He was still freezing, and still holding his frozen cola and trying to control his blood circulation because he had too much pride left, and well things aren't looking too good for him.

The dumb hat was off, exposing Russia's jawline, which if he hadn't already tried, would've thoroughly convinced him that it could slice off his fingers with one touch. The thing about Russia's face was that it was always stone-cold, but this was Russia that was not looking at him: he was not deeply pissed, or annoyed or bloodthirsty or whatever it was that America's known presence made him feel. And normal Russia was admittedly handsome in his own right. Of course, America had hoped for other things, too, but just between the both of them, arousing was not really his thing. That was mostly why America was doing this whole thing. No one else could know, especially not Russia.

America paid little mind to Russia's hair—he already knew for a fact that it looked best after three rounds of drunken (a bit, so America could still remember the important details) sex, and no one could argue with him otherwise, not that anyone would. Meanwhile, he was in the middle of braving, which was surviving, but in a cooler way, the worst winter ever. Okay, maybe not as cool as he imagined.

Was he experiencing the side-effects of freezing to death, or was Russia just unbuttoning his coat reeeeally slowly? Also his latest idea to fulfill his self-imposed mission was pulling his jacket up over his head like a makeshift hoodie so he wouldn't go blind with all the snowflakes slapping his face before Russia can finally! take his fucking! coat off.

So it turned out Russia had a bunch of other tops to remove, while America was losing touch with his legs. He needed to stand, badly, and he also needed Russia to turn around (back muscles! and to see if his marks were as deep as they'd felt—they'd felt bloody.), before he could never stand again, which was coincidentally what he told himself after fucking in a closet for a couple of hours, although he was never good at keeping time, but god, this was serious, like that better be the last layer—

—Russia turned around.

America stood very quickly, and also with his teeth clenched, but that did not stop his legs from making a bunch of unflattering, horror–movie–level noises. He cussed, also keeping it minimal, just some _fuck_ s and _daaamn_ , Russia had his back bare and facing the window, the perfect view for America to admire while stretching out his legs. Yup, definitely his claw marks right there. Maybe if his fingers were a little softer than frozen french fries he would get his phone out for a photo—uhh, no such luck—because Russia was turning again so back under the window it was.

If legs had feelings America's legs probably wanted to murder him right now. He told them telepathically that it was going to be very worth it— _Shit_ , how much had he been working out since he last saw him naked? Spoiler alert: A WHOLE LOT, because while America knew nothing about sculpting, he would say he looked like a very expensive work of art. Like maybe Francis' arm or leg or both–kind of expensive.

Damn. He should really ditch his coke now, shouldn't he? For diet coke, maybe?

Anyhow, he didn't really have the luxury of time to debate his future drink of choice, because Russia was leaving and America knew where this was going, and he honestly might not have a future if he stayed here one second longer. 

Russia was heading to the bathroom.

He was only wearing two things.

America had never seen one of them off and it was not his boxers.

Death did not scare him! And besides Russia had hot water in his bath (shower sex, it went so well neither of them ever brought it up) so if he could get to the bathroom window he could witness the view of all fucking eternity, and, get close to some steam to warm his hands. Best idea ever!

America of course, knew where the said window was, except that it was unreasonably high, and so were the risks involved.

But the plus-side about being incredibly immature, or childish, was that he couldn't give less shits about risks (what do you mean it isn't like the board game? not cool, not listening.) and knew that snow was also a makeshift ladder when it wasn't being a bitch to your face. Wait, that wasn't quite right, but problems solved either way.

So now he was standing atop a made–by–AmericaTM snow dune, jacket over his head, looking a bit more dignified than before. What a pleasant change, right?

And there's Russia in front of the mirror (why do you have a mirror in your bathroom? actually never mind, it just seemed awkward to have the mirror there when they did _that_ ), and he stands there for a couple moments and America thinks Russia has caught on, somehow, but then he goes and unravels his scarf. America reminds himself that he is not a pervert.

He probably didn't need his glasses to see that huge gash around his neck. He sort of felt it, at times, but never really saw it for real. He wanted to say it looked much worse than it felt. 

America thinks about it. Whatever caused it got worse, so Russia had to go get it stitched up, and now it just looks so painful, America can't fathom how many burgers Russia needs to get better. Oh god, now he actually wants to help him get better.

Russia's fingers are bloody from touching the wound and America knows the look on his face. He looked at a mirror like that once, and the next thing he knew he was smashing it to bits, but Russia just had that sad look where you hate yourself to pieces, and well America will admit just for now, he _knows_ Russia, and he knows ugly crying is definitely Russia's agenda for the next five minutes, and he will not hear a single sound and he will also die for real because—

He sees Russia swallow hard, biting his lip.

No. 

Please don't.

Goddammit. America slams his frozen fingers against the window, which does virtually nothing, but then he starts yelling and he is very surprised that his voice is not one bit affected by the cold and now he can't take anything back.

"IVAN! STOOP! NONONONONONO—"

Russia turns at his name (which America knows is what always gets him) and stares at him for one good second. America holds his breath. Russia's eyes are purple and wide and also filled with tears. This was _so_ new.

Russia grabs his scarf and bolts from the room.

America shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click and madman–dashes to the kitchen window. He reaches there in record time and just straight-up smashes the fucking window (thanks frozen cola!) and Russia is there too, looking very un-Russia-like and it bothers him and so he just goes with his gut, no more plans, and gets one arm around Russia's shoulders and a hand over his eyes and just pushes him back and kisses him as hard as he can, eyes closed, fingers crossed—His hand is so **wet**.

Russia doesn't fight back against him for once in his fucking life and they slide to the floor and Russia is gasping between the kisses and his hands are under America's jacket and shirt, and America tries to get him to stop breathing like a dying fish.

The aggressive kissing, and maybe a little biting, seems to work. 

Russia says, "...Alfred.", instead of forcing air into his lungs with his mouth and not his nose, and America stops, licks his lips, then licks Russia's lips, and is pleased that they both taste like blood. He dries his hand off on Russia's scarf.

"What was that? Alfred."

America was still straddling Russia, and he leaned back on his thighs, one hand bracing against the floor and the other tracing Russia's abs. It felt ridiculously satisfying.

Russia let him. 

Perhaps the biggest favor he had ever done for America without demanding anything in return. The previous record holder would be Russia not saying anything that might piss him off for ten minutes straight, his highest record, which America ruined for him by saying something that pissed off Russia first.

"Nothing much," America assures him. "What about ya?"

Russia says nothing at first, but he does slide his hands up the side of America's thighs, real slow, and Alfred wants to shred his pants stat. Russia stops his ministrations and America would have _whined_ under slightly different circumstances. Their eyes meet, blue to violet, and Russia asks, "Did you see?", like he doesn't know the answer and America wants to lie to him. He wanted to lie to his face. No, **no** he didn't see anything. 

But he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, metaphorically, and he picked rock. "Yeah." 

It turned out Russia wasn't quite done with the hard questions. "Why did you come here?"

Uh-oh. America could think of about a thousand different responses that would immediately sound like he came here to expose Russia's weakness, or something similar.

"It's not what you think." God that sounded bad. He needed like a burger, or ten.

"You don't know what I think, Alfred."

"Yes I do. Spoiler alert: you think I'm here to expose you or some shit. I'm not!"

"You were literally outside my window, Alfred. Explain that."

"Look, I-I can't, okay? I was just there! I mean, I wanted to know, and…" America scratched the back of his head. "Listen, are you cold? The snow's blowing in—"

"No I'm not."

"Alright, fine. I wanted to know why you were always wearing your scarf, okay? Then you had to go and cry and stuff, but that's it, I swear."

Russia looked down. America noticed that his bangs were longer than usual.

"Okay. Goodbye, Alfred." Russia makes an attempt to stand, but America grabs his wrists.

"What? Just like that? I haven't even told you why I came here!"

"There's no need. You only come here for one thing anyway."

"Burgers." "Sex."

They were both silent for a while. Neither America's tan nor Russia's scarf could hide the sheer **_redness_** of their faces, ears, and neck.

America scrambles off of Russia and they stand up, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. 

Finally, America says, "How about some vodka?" 

"Yeah, sure," Russia says to the broken window.

Then America opens a drawer that was definitely meant for silverware and pulls out two bottles, because apparently Russia needed a secret compartment for silverware.

Russia takes his vodka and leaves the kitchen and America grins and takes a swig out of his own bottle, getting just a bit of the awful stuff that tastes nothing like cola down his throat. He makes a face and then follows Russia.

He knows where this is going.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I need to put a song here:
> 
> Sugar, We're Goin Down -Fall Out Boy


End file.
